When old friends fade out like lost signals in a storm cloud, years of intimacy morph then rest as something that only holds nostalgic value. And when you stumble across tattered shoeboxes stuffed with old photographs and scraps of paper, or something similar. You feel sick to the stomach. But it’s a feeling blurred somewhere between euphoria, longing and loss. So you just lie there, on your mattress with the bed frame absent, on the floor of your basement room. And get lost momentarily, someplace in the cluttered attic of your memory.